


unchained melody

by evil_whimsey



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Post Series, Sketches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: Roy Mustang walks into a bar.(From a music prompt by pandoraculpa:  Dirty Three, "Some Summers They Drop Like Flys")
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	unchained melody

Roy honestly hadn't intended to wander into that dark and seedy-looking bar at three in the afternoon, but he caught this wrenching and dimly familiar melody lilting ghostlike out the open doorway, stirring up the sort of memories best left buried. The next thing he knew, he was seated inside, sipping glasses of something pale gold and spicy, while a violin mourned in counterpoint to a solemn tambourine, off in the corner.

He alternated between slipping coins to the bartender and the musicians, until the room went fuzzy around the edges and the sun set, and the barkeep lit the indoor lights and candles, creating a warm-colored murky haze, framed by shadowy corners, not unlike the inside of Roy's head.

At some point Edward Elric turned up: rumpled, broad-shouldered, and hazy gold. Like one of those stunning murals of the Xerxian gods, only grumpier.

"Seriously, Mustang?" He crossed his arms and Roy tipped his glass in a toast.

"You ever hear the music in Ishbal?" he asked, seized by the need to share this bittersweet thing in him, gradually numbed down to a gentle swollen ache, thanks to some number of pale spicy drinks he might've lost track of.

"Oh fuck me," muttered Ed, swiping a hand up his brow, mussing his bangs. Roy wanted to pat them down for him, but wasn't too sure of his balance on the barstool just then.

"Ishbalan culture produced a lot of fine music. Very....feeling music, y'know?" he confided. "'Least 'til we wiped them all out."

"I really think you should not talk, right now," Ed grumbled, cutting his gaze across the bar. But Roy didn't think anybody else was listening. It wasn't as though he felt the need to raise his voice, unlike some people he knew.

"I have regrets, Ed. Edward." Roy explained, gesturing very discreetly toward the violinist, willing Ed to understand. About the lovely haunting music, and that gritty, Spartan, but harrowingly beautiful landscape he'd made a smoking wreck of. Him. His own scarred and ruinous hands.

Ed cast a sardonic and largely unsympathetic side-eye at him. "Yeah? So join the damn club. Maybe try not to make any new regrets before tomorrow, huh? Didn't you tell me that, or was it some other jackass Colonel?"

"I don't recall you ever took my advice," Roy pointed out primly. He reached toward his glass, blinking in confusion when it vanished from under his hand, into Ed's.

"Well, some people mature as they get older." Strangely, Ed's expression wasn't so scathing as usual. He looked mildly exasperated, and also sort of....fond? Or maybe Roy really had drank too much.

"I just wanted to. Not have feelings, for awhile," he sighed. He was so tired, suddenly, of everything.

There came a weight on his shoulder: Ed's hand, warm and unexpectedly reassuring. Ordinarily, Ed liked to reassure Roy by shouting at him. It was their thing, a tradition made worn-in and comfortable over many years. Like a pair of old house slippers.

But this new thing, this non-threatening physical contact. It wasn't terrible. It was possibly one of the nicer things to happen to Roy, in awhile.

"C'mon Mustang, I'm not wasting all night in this dump. Al's making dinner tonight. You can crash on the sofa or something, I guess."

**


End file.
